Once upon a time there was a treadle sewing machine, who stitched and stitched and stitched and stitched. She worked so hard and grew so weary that she was finally allowed to rest. But even as she rested, water seeped in and corroded her treadle, disintegrated her belts, and fed the fungus that ate away at her wood. Unloved and dirty, unable to stitch and too weary to cry, she was hidden away and left for lost.
Decades past until at last came a human who took her in, who oiled her treadle and scrubbed at her rust and undid her screws and removed all that rotten wood. There were some very strange noises and some very long waits, but sure enough she began to feel better. She felt alive and new, fresh and young, reborn and resurrected.
And she didn’t feel very much like stitching at all. She only wished to be still and offer up a flat surface just right for figuring or writing, drawing or doodling, journalling or scribbling. So that’s just what she did.
And she lived happily ever after (as a writing desk).